


all things swift and beautiful and bright

by interstiellar



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Death, Grief, Loss, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Death, Mourning, Spoilers for episode 174, mentions of injury, no beta we die like romans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27134783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interstiellar/pseuds/interstiellar
Summary: The thing with grief is that it comes in waves.
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27





	all things swift and beautiful and bright

**Author's Note:**

> 3 weeks. I don't catch up for 3 weeks and this is what happens. Christ. I just caught up yesterday and I've spent that time heartbroken to the point that I can't bring myself to read any of the lovely fix-its I'm sure ya'll wrote. Really thankful for the break as it gives me time to decompress and hopefully catch up on this tag and my WIPs before I got super busy since late August. 
> 
> This is just a little something to sort out my thoughts and feelings. Hope it helps you as well!
> 
> “The sorrow was so large it threatened to tear through my skin. When he died, all things swift and beautiful and bright would be buried with him.” - Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles

The thing with grief is that it comes in waves.

This is something Zolf Smith knows. 

He runs to the first body he sees, his heavy footsteps unnaturally silent in the snow. His breath comes out in puffs of white as he races towards the colorful heap on the ground. His gaze is drawn to the point of the tree where it pierces through the flesh. Then to the drops of blood staining the landscape red. Then finally, to the shock of wavy, brown hair. 

Zolf comes to a stop a few feet before Wilde and knows with a terrible certainty that he is gone. 

A rush fills his ears as he stands there unblinking, eyes fixed on the awful reality before him. He can feel his body seize up, his knees starting to buckle with the weight of his anguish. Zolf closes his eyes and clenches his fist, taking a deep, shaky breath.

_Move on._

He wants to fall to the ground, pound his fists on the snow. Curse and plead to whomever is listening to not let this happen _please this can’t be happening he is gone and I am here and I haven’t even said-_

_Move on. Someone else could still be saved._

Zolf opens his eyes and wills his body to take a step back. The movement is akin to treading underwater. His limbs are leaden, fighting against the pull of the current. He takes another step back and it isn’t any easier. But the others need his help _and he’s a bloody cleric so would his feet just move-_

Zolf turns and runs, blinking back unshed tears. 

* * *

He helps lay down the dead.

Zolf retrieves Wilde’s body, wincing through the crunch of wood as he gently lifts him off the shattered tree. _He’s so limp and already so cold._ He can’t bear to look at his face just yet. He carries him to the deck of the ship, cradling his body against him and shielding it as best as he can against the light flurry of snow. An empty sheet has been laid out beside the others. He sets him down and musters up the courage to look at him. 

His eyes are closed, no trace of the pain he must have felt upon impact. Small mercies. He brushes away the strands of hair falling on his face, careful to pick away at bits of snow. Zolf knows his hands are trembling, but thankfully nobody brings it up.

He turns his attention to the gaudy mesh of color that has become Wilde’s clothes. Blood stains the area where he was struck, just below his sternum. The wound itself is an ugly gash, the torn flesh raised at the edges. Zolf quietly asks for a needle and thread that is handed to him wordlessly. He knows there’s no point in stitching it up, they’d probably cremate (bar the fallen kobolds, whose traditions he did not know) rather than bury them when there’s this much snow. But he has to do this for him.

Wilde would have hated to die in these clothes. At least he’s still wearing the frankly ridiculous fur coat Hamid had made him, albeit the color change. He would have appreciated that.

A wave of sorrow hits him hard at the thought, and for a moment he is silently gasping for air, his vision blurring. _Not yet._ He gathers himself together but he can’t shake off the feeling of _wrongness_ when he looks upon Wilde’s form. Oscar Wilde belongs to things beautiful and warm, and it seems so _unfair_ for a man so animated and loud to be so very still. 

The thing with death is that it takes and takes and takes with no heed for the unfairness of loss.

This is another thing Zolf Smith knows. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm desperately trying not to think of 'what ifs' regarding the resurrection thing 😬
> 
> Come shout at me on twitter @interstiellar if you want like, a virtual hand to hold.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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